


Night Moves

by hellhoundsprey



Series: ficlet prompts [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs in a Car, Bottom Sam, Car Sex, Drunk Sex, M/M, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 12:17:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15024443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: Prompt: Sam/Dean, car sex. Sam’s feeling slutty.This got cute. Beware.





	Night Moves

There’s something inherently hot about getting a ride from your clearly tipsy brother.

Dean could drive a Lexus and Sam would still adore him.

Having had one too many Sam’s still not dumb enough to let his mouth run with the shit he’d like to say. Stuff like _What are you thinking about?_ and _You look so beautiful right now_ , stuff a chick would say. Dean’s not a romantic. Sam spent many years verbally (and emotionally) falling on his face. Nobody knows his brother like he does.

Call it home advantage. There’s no judge for this type of thing, not in their world.

“Hey, take the next exit.”

Dean doesn’t falter in tapping the steering wheel along to Black Sabbath. “And why would I do that?”

“So you can pull over and suck my cock.”

That gets him one considering glance, a scoff, and a turn signal.

He smiles to himself, sprawls in the passenger seat because he owns it. Sam’s dick has been on Pavlovian response since middle school and Dean loves it. Loves the devotion, the hunger. Dean’s better with his body than with his words, always has been.

The Impala comes to a halt and the radio keeps playing while the engine settles down. Headlights off, they could be as well alone in the world.

Sam’s got a hand on his brother’s leg before said brother can spell out, “Backseat?”

“Nah. Work for it.”

Dean makes as much of a bitch face as he can muster with a hand on his dick. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”

All the incentive it takes is to drive the seats back some more and for Sam to sprawl his mile-ish legs apart further and unzip his jeans before Dean crawls over to him. Mouth-first.

Sam says, “Fuck,” and lets Jesus take the wheel, drops his head back over the seat. It’s always like the first time.

He gathers one hand to run it over Dean’s back. He yanks the jacket up to get at the flannel. Bled-through heated skin, two thin layers below his own. Dean is all scar-tissue and issues, but this is what home feels like. You can’t pick and choose this stuff.

Sam couldn’t have come up with half the things Dean can do that drive him insane.

“Shit, your fucking mouth.”

“Mhm.”

Dean pops off just to grin at him, slap his cock against the side of his adorable cheek.

“You’re fuckin’ bursting before I even got to you.”

“Been thinking about this.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Mh.” Dean goes back down. So do Sam’s verbal abilities. “What I’d make you do. What I want you to do.”

Dean does that thing with both his hands and his tongue that’s basically his translation for _I love you_ that has Sam coming off the seat just a little. Bare moments in, and his balls and heart are already so fucking done for.

“Wait. Here, uh… Like that.” He’s got one leg hiked up against the window and pushes at his jeans. Nods his chin at Dean, tells him, “Get your hand in there,” and has to grab the base of his cock at the new glaze of animal coming over Dean’s eyes.

“Shit,” his brother says, already scrambling to fit his hand between ass and jeans, shifting in the small space they’ve got. “The whole thing? How ’bout some fingers, for starters.”

“I don’t care,” and that’s honest, every time. “Just get in me, just…”

Sam’s mouth fails him when his brother does what he does best—taking care of him.

Spit and ring and middle and a tongue to the tip of his dick. Breathless, “Like that?” and Sam can’t do much more than nod and make a throat-sound.

Dean growls when Sam hisses. Shushes, spits. He has a cute dirty snicker, just for this type of moment.

“It’s been a while.”

“Yeah.”

“You sure that…?”

“Yeah. Yeah, shit.”

“I’ve got you.”

Sam’s brother excelled in fingerbanging before Sam finished elementary school. They’ve survived Apocalypse and monsters and demons but how Dean’s not gotten carpal tunnel yet, that’s the real miracle here. Sam’s always been a believer.

Sam’s already seeing in doubles. Has his tee matted against his drenched chest and back and worked himself down to Dean’s naked spine, the soft valley of it on his fucking ripped, world-savior-wide back.

“C-can you…”

“Backseat?”

Sam’s halfway to breaking his neck with how he’s nodding but everything becomes irrelevant with Dean kissing him, right on the mouth, bold and wet and tasting like cock.

Sam might be falling out of the car but he’s also gracefully on all fours in the back of their Dad’s car, so.

“Shit. God.” Dean unzips behind him, cicadas screaming around them. Sam registers with a smile that Dean did the thinking and grabbed the bottle of lube they keep stashed in the glove box. “You sure? I’ll go slow, alright?”

Sam confirms again, “Yeah,” and pushes his ass out of the car some more, closer to where it’s warm and burning and, “Wow,” he laughs, “you’re wet.”

Dean informs, “And whose fault is that?” before he lines up, gets a hold of Sam’s hips. “You think you’re the only horny sonofabitch in this car, huh?”

Sam could use his mouth but pushing his body back so Dean knows what’s up is just as good. If not better.

They both groan.

“Slow down if you want this to last longer than a minute.”

Sam laughs, “Seriously?” but does give his best to not take over. Holding still, letting Dean set the pace—it’s intense, in such a different way than pushing and grinding right to the limit from the start. Dean, he’s a slow lover. It’s an orchestra. Build-up, middle-part, finish spurt.

Sam drops to his chest and gets a hold of one of Dean’s hands, and just drifts.

Dean’s working him until they’re pubic bone to tailbone and curses softly, circles his thumb over the straining rim of his asshole like a there-there.

Sam could never, ever make fun of him.

At this point, all Sam has to say is something along the breathy lines of, “Fuck me,” and he gets exactly what he wants.

Words just never were quite enough for them.


End file.
